


Odds Against

by callmeflo



Series: a Mage's Bane [4]
Category: Moren-Ezen
Genre: Gen, Hallow's Eve Event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeflo/pseuds/callmeflo
Summary: Nothing gets me in the mood of All Hallow’s Eve more than getting myself lost in a corn maze.
Series: a Mage's Bane [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533155





	Odds Against

_October 31st_

_Nothing gets me in the mood of All Hallow’s Eve more than getting myself lost in a corn maze._

✧

The city comes into view first as a blur on the horizon, and then hours and miles later as more defined buildings and obvious signs of human settlement. At the crest of the final rocky steppe hill between them and their old home, Nawra tugs Madsie’s ground eating stride to a slow amble to appreciate the view.

The sight of Haspar brings back many memories.

Mostly they’re good. The comfort of her childhood home, hard work that earnt a content standing in life; the rich, meaty scent of her mother’s easy broth on the fire lit stove, made from offcuts and imperfect pieces from that day’s market; the soft furs that line the furniture, with their unsymmetrical patterns and scars that made them unsellable; and the quiet cacophony of the evenings spent curled up on a feather mattress, lulled to sleep by braying livestock, clattering hooves, murmuring voices through the cracked window.

But the last few years’ worth are tainted. Judging eyes that saw her magebane filly as a bad omen, but daren’t say anything about it to her face; the whispers of curses and magic out in the mountains and wildlands, the atmosphere turning tense and wary from it; the city elders’ withered eyes looking over her with suspicion as her treks out stretch longer and longer; hiding her journal deep in her saddlebags, fearful that their suspicions would be proved right, that the city people would hiss ‘traitor’ at her back.

Nawra sweeps a hand over Madsie’s neck, feeling the rough texture of berry dye and chalk paints that she’d drawn on that morning to both amuse the children and obscure the blood markings - orange pumpkins, purple ghosts, white bones and skull markings across her muzzle and cheeks.

“Just a couple days,” she repeats, a prayer and consolation.

Before the distant architecture is the outskirts though, which means farmland and rural edges. It’s the end of the harvest season, farmers and their thickly muscled Jibitas having cut and bundled the crops and then ploughed and harrowed the fresh, fertile land flat and brown once more, a blank slate for the springtime growth.

One large, sprawling field remains growing: the corn, with its towering stalks visible even from this far away. As is tradition every year, there has been a winding pattern of pathways cut throughout the crop to create a maze within the maize, wide enough for horses to be ridden through, and the leafy vegetation tall enough that you couldn’t see over the tips even whilst mounted. There’s an exit at either end, bordered by a wooden archway and a couple of familiar teenagers trying to convince people to go in.

Madsie leaps forward at Nawra’s kick, cantering freely across the rough grassland, ears pricked forward at feeling her rider’s excitement vibrating down the reins. They move swiftly and come quickly upon the maze’s back entrance, where they skid to an inelegant stop.

“Working hard, boys?” Nawra jests, dancing her horse up to where the pair are lounging. “Don’t tell me you’ve run the maze already.”

The ginger haired boy laughs and protests: “I’m not even allowed in, Nawrie - I helped design the thing this year!” His face is coated with the sun kissed freckles that are a trademark trait of his extensive family, who are well known as some of the best farmers and herdsmen in the city. They’ve at least one kid in every generation, and it was this boy’s sister who sat beside Nawra in tutoring sessions and helped at their market stall on busy weekends, in return for crafting lessons from Nawra’s mother.

“So it’ll be a ten minute cakewalk, eh?” she smirks in reply.

The other boy snorts, wincing dramatically. “He’s spent the last three months drawing it out, there’s more dead ends than there are corn plants. Not sure we’ll have anyone at the bonfire at this rate.” Rodi’s tanned skin and dark hair is a complete contrast to his best friend, having come from a horse breeding family who had over the years travelled extensively for new bloodlines and builds. Rumour had it they’d recently managed to get a line of draft horses, but they’re as tight lipped on the subject as always.

“It’s a masterpiece, and you’re just sore that I had to come get you!”

“I was three turns from the exit, you just got impatient!”

Before an endless argument can spark, she interrupts. “Any tips for me then, Chess?”

Chess hums and haws in faux contemplation for a good thirty seconds before giving in to avoid the swipes Nawra takes at his perfectly coiffed hair. “If you ever make it to the centre… take the path straight north and you might make it out before midnight,” he smirks.

“I’m not making any bets with you idiots, but I will see you at the bonfire,” she retorts, waving a hand at the luck they call after her, and Madsie picks up a striding trot as they pass under the archway and into the corridor.

The maze is as promised: confusing and frustrating and must be at least twice as big as last year. It seems like they meet barely anyone inside although there’s no shortage of children laughing or adults calling over the walls to each other. Nawra tries to keep at a jaunty trot, using their speed to cut down on time as they slip around tight corners, spinning on Madsie’s hind quarters when they hit yet another dead end.

At one point she halts to squint at the uniquely shaped, twisting path before her, sure she’d walked right here twenty minutes before. It’s coming onto late afternoon with the sun beginning to sink down in the purpling sky, and the ground beneath them has been packed solid by a day’s visitors and dry weather - there’s not a hint of hoof print to use as evidence.

Nawra curses Chess’ name and kicks Madsie onward.

**Author's Note:**

> they approach Haspar and can't resist giving the maize maze a go. getting hopelessly lost is an important tradition. 
> 
> Word Count(1008 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Event Entry(+2), Personal Work(+1) = 15EP for Nawra and Madsie


End file.
